


Switchblade

by severinne



Series: Land [2]
Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, Power Play, Revenge, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-26
Updated: 2008-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:06:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/severinne/pseuds/severinne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An escalating cycle of smut inspired in equal parts by Philip Glenister's gorgeous bit of dirty-talking on <em>The Vice</em> and Patti Smith's <em>Land</em>, which provides the titles for all three parts.</p><p>Part Two: Sam returns for round two, and brings a switchblade along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Switchblade

Gene poured his third scotch, measuring time in vices – looking at his wristwatch would have been useless anyway, as he hadn’t bothered to note the time when Sam had strutted his arse out of Gene’s office three cigarettes ago. He stubbed out his most recent fag in the ashtray as he assessed his wait. Three cigarettes, two drinks, one hard-on gently diminished yet aching still for attention that Gene refused to give himself when he knew Sam would irresistibly return, sooner or later. Hopefully sooner.

Turning his head slightly to tug his unfastened tie from beneath his shirt collar, his eye caught the mess of paperwork still scattered carelessly over his floor. He wouldn’t be touching that anytime soon either, though he couldn’t wait to see if Sam could be made to bend to the task.

Smiling faintly, he took a sip of his drink and let the mouthful of scotch linger on his tongue while he stroked the tie between his fingers, contemplating the various and highly particular ways of making Sam bend for him. The heavy peat aroma burned down his throat, filling him with a lazy satisfaction that fuelled his increasingly lewd imaginings of unspeakable things that once - well before Sam - would have made Gene fluster with shock but now made his lip curl into a smirk, made his cock twitch with anticipation.

He heard the creak of hinges, felt the rush of air at the back of his neck as the door behind his desk was pushed open. The click of those Cuban heels was unmistakable, and Gene didn’t bother to turn around when familiar fingers threaded through his hair. Didn’t even bother to pack away the smirk. He knew the little tart would be back.

The tightening of the hand into a fist snapped at Gene’s reflexes a heartbeat too late to resist the sharp tug that wrenched his head painfully backward. His startled eyes could barely glimpse the shadow of Sam standing over him, behind him, before the touch of something dangerously cold and fine glanced over his exposed throat, close enough to be felt without cutting, and Gene froze, too alarmed to swallow the lump forming in his throat.

He nervously wet his lips, opened his mouth to speak, and Sam’s dark shape moved quickly, swooping down upon him and devouring his unformed protests with a slow, searing kiss. Sam’s tongue slicked shamelessly over his mouth, stroking wet and hot past his lips and penetrating deep enough to make Gene quake, desire clawing up his spine but the blade at his throat held him captive, unable to move save for the desperate clenching of his hands on his armrests. Frustrated, full of adrenaline, Gene tangled his tongue ruthlessly against Sam’s, disguising his wordless plea as a demand. He felt Sam’s mouth stretch over his, recognized that smirk by touch alone, and growled deep in his chest as Sam’s hand relaxed in his hair and began _petting_ him, like some perverse idea of a reward, and Gene wasn’t a goddamn dog but if Sam was going to treat him like one…

Sam’s tongue slipped past his lips again, and Gene bit down. Hard.

He felt the vibration of Sam’s pain, a sharp little sound at the back of Sam’s throat but there was no flinch, no easing of the knife away from Gene’s neck. He shuddered as the tip of Sam’s trapped tongue continued to tease at him, flickering at the roof of his mouth until Gene relented with a soft moan, his jaw relaxing of its own accord. Sam poured a pleasured hum into the wet heat of his mouth, lapped into him once more, and pulled back, fingers drifting out of his hair.

Gene opened his mouth to speak, but could only manage an aborted half-vowel of surprise once Sam’s free hand slapped down over his mouth, muffling him before any sound could escape. Indignant, Gene glared up at him, hoping that his eyes were communicating even half of his rage at this unpredictable turn of events, unwilling to attempt any further sound out of sheer, stubborn pride.

The pressure of Sam’s hand over his mouth was guiding his head further back, cradling him against the leather-clad warmth of Sam’s chest and forcing his gaze upward. Sam studied him with narrowed eyes, his lower lip quirking between a conciliatory pout and something more predatory and Gene finally swallowed, felt his Adam’s apple slide past the blade at his throat, as he fully appreciated his predicament, even as he struggled to comprehend the fierce heat of his renewed arousal pulsing heavily between his legs. Gene was stronger, larger, a big enough bastard to take on Sam any day of the week.

But Sam – his clever, crafty, and mildly unhinged DI – was just plain crazy. And he had a knife.

Something of that defeat must have shown in Gene’s eyes, because Sam suddenly grinned down at him, fond yet feral. The blade eased away from his throat and Gene sagged in relief, only to flinch again at the sensation of steel dipping into the open neck of his shirt. Breathing hard through his nose, inhaling the scent of leather and Sam’s hand, Gene focused on the movement of the knife shifting over his chest, felt something pull and release at his shirt. Felt cool air waft over his chest and realized that Sam was cutting the threads of his shirt buttons, one at a time.

Sam leaned down as his blade descended along the row, pushing Gene’s head down with him, and he both heard and saw the next button flicked away, rolling across the floor with a tiny rattle in the silent room. He also saw the knife in Sam’s hand, a trim and deadly little switchblade, small but sharp judging from the short work it was making of his shirt buttons.

The last button rolled somewhere down between his legs, and Sam adjusted his grip on the switchblade, cradling its handle under his thumb and allowing his fingers to skim his shirt aside, to knead the soft flesh beneath. Gene groaned into the hand over his mouth; he hadn’t bothered with a vest today, and Sam’s cool fingers, the colder threat of steel, were etching vulnerability into his bare skin and sparking off fraying nerve endings. Sam was breathing heavily against his neck, into his ear with a rough tongue and greedy teeth and Gene shivered, closed his eyes in an attempt to gather the scraps of his control but control was sliding away, as surely as the shirt Sam was tugging down his arms to expose even more skin to his touch. Teeth sank into his shoulder, hard enough to renew Gene’s worries of having his blood spilt over Sam’s bruised ego and he felt another inarticulate moan squirm in his throat, stifled still by Sam’s hand. The shard of sound that managed to escape was mortifying to Gene’s ears but it seemed to please Sam, who left off his biting with a gentle lick and rose upright, stepping to the side of Gene’s chair.

He kept his hand over Gene’s mouth even as he deftly swung a leg over the arm of the chair, planting his knee between Gene’s thighs on the seat and fixing him with heated amber-dark eyes. Gene stared straight back, refusing to glance down at the switchblade that Sam was now tapping lightly against his own denim-clad thigh, its sharp light dancing at the edge of his vision. As though reading Gene’s mind, Sam lifted the switchblade into the charged air between them, touching it to his lips as they pursed themselves into a shushing pout. His head inclined to the left, a gesture that managed to encompass all the outer world of CID, and Gene understood the request and the threat behind it.

He closed his eyes, nodded once, and exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding when Sam’s hand released his mouth. Mutely, he watched Sam’s narrowed eyes drop from his face, following his own hand as it drifted down Gene’s bare chest and belly towards his unbearably hard cock, bulging obscenely inside his trousers. Gene bit his lip hard to keep silent while Sam stroked him slowly, almost thoughtfully through the straining polyester, with light and varied touches as though Sam were making a highly particular study of his length and girth and it should have felt clinical but Gene only clenched his jaw harder, his arousal inflamed beyond comprehension.

Those fussy fingers finally dipped behind his belt and Gene closed his eyes, nearly shaking with anticipation of being freed from this. The other hand fisting in his shirt should have alarmed him more than it did, but Gene was beyond caring.

At least, until Sam yanked him forward and kicked the chair out from under him.

Gene’s knees hit the linoleum with a loud knock that sounded only half as painful as it really felt. There was no holding back the agonized grunt that broke his throat, but Sam’s admonishing smack across his face was less than sympathetic. Dazed, Gene glared up at Sam only to find his gaze stuttering significantly south of the smug bastard’s face, fixated by Sam’s hands steadily unfastening his belt and flies.

 _Oh._

Prematurely, Gene swallowed. Hard.

He had known what this was about, but now he understood just how literal Sam could be with his notion of payback. Gene had lured him in with this very suggestion, had planted the image in his mad little brain, and now Sam was collecting on it. With interest, judging by the engorged member confronting Gene once Sam had eased his tight trousers down his hips. Angry and proud, it bobbed enticingly mere inches from Gene’s face. The musk of Sam’s arousal heaped itself upon his own. _Gorgeous._

Sam had set aside the switchblade on the edge of Gene’s desk, and he took it in hand once more but Gene needed no further incitement than what hovered before him. A rush of smug defiance swelled in Gene’s chest as he moved, tasted the first hint of Sam on his lips well before the blade glanced against his throat. Repressing a smirk, Gene opened his mouth and slid wetly forward, easing the flat of his tongue along the underside of Sam’s cock, relishing the dark, salty taste and the shaken gasp sounding above him. He inched forward as far as possible, Sam tight to the back of his throat, and sucked hard, once, twice before sliding back again, tongue teasing at the flesh in his mouth, finding and tracing the single throbbing vein leading back to the head. Stopping short of pulling off completely, Gene parted his lips just before the now-weeping crown and simply _breathed_ , inhaling Sam’s taste and exhaling a slow, steady push of air over his spit-slick length.

A harsh, gutteral groan cut the soundless tension of the office, Sam dropping the switchblade with a loud clatter and tangling both hands in Gene’s already-disheveled hair. Gene braced himself, forced his gag reflex to relax before the first thrust took him, plunging deep into his throat. Sam was fucking his face with complete abandon now, panting soft yet quick with an increasingly high-pitched cadence that clenched at the arousal coiling around Gene’s spine but he didn’t dare touch himself, not with all his attentions possessed by Sam’s need overwhelming his own.

Sam’s orgasm came over him sudden and powerful, pulsing thick and salty over the roof of his mouth, flooding over the tongue that Gene worked ruthlessly over Sam’s still-twitching cock. The further stimulation ripped a short, keening cry from Sam’s mouth that ended far too soon for Gene’s taste, so he gave the softening flesh a final, firm suck as Sam tried to withdraw, edged with teeth.

The effort earned Gene a hard shove in the shoulder. Light-headed from exertion, he fell too easily backward, his spine catching the chair before his arse hit the floor. Gene struggled to catch his breath, head bowed to disguise the hand that hastily scrubbed the saliva from his chin; no doubt he looked like shit after all that, and his cock was still throbbing hot inside his trousers so he glanced up expectantly, challenging Sam to do something about it.

And his breath caught in his throat again. Sam wasn’t even looking at him, had already tucked himself neatly away and turned aside as he fished around in one of the inner pockets of his leather jacket. Gene watched, confounded by arousal, as Sam withdrew several folded sheets of paper and, with a quick unreadable look back down at Gene, flicked them over the desk to the floor.

Gene frowned, opened his mouth to speak at last, but Sam was already walking out, stepping primly over one of Gene’s splayed legs on his way out the door. His boot heels clicked in diminishing measures, steady and sure in the corridor outside, and Gene’s blood raced with frustrated rage.

Driven by anger and lust, Gene surged to his feet, shoving the chair aside to clear his path to the door, then hesitated, shocked by his own indecision. Despite himself, his eye drifted to the other side of his desk and spotted the papers Sam had thrown down. They had landed amongst the remains of Sam’s discarded evidence folder with chilling accuracy, speaking louder than any words they may have contained.

Scoffing bitterly, Gene looked away, tugging his shirt back over his shoulders, then paused again. Pursed his sore lips. Rolled his eyes, and stalked around his desk. Snatched up the papers, eyes scanning rapidly.

Four pages. Three were taken up with Bixby’s confession, tight with detail and signed every which way to Sunday. The fourth page…

Gene’s heart raced even faster, his eyes growing wide as he read the filth laid out in Sam’s slanting hand.

His fingers gouged the page at its edges, paper crumpling like twisted metal under his touch.

Like a caress, compared to what Sam had coming to him.


End file.
